


Never Changing, Only Swaying

by the_writer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Claudia Stilinski Memories, Creature Stiles, Family Secrets, Feels, Gen, One Shot, Polish Stiles Stilinski, Polish Stilinskis, Siren Stiles Stilinski, Sirens, Stiles Feels, Stiles Stilinski Speaks Polish, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8601475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_writer/pseuds/the_writer
Summary: Stiles never did mind singing at the top of his lungs while he was home alone.





	

Beacon Hills was terribly small for a town, not to the point that everyone knew everyone, but to the point that days went by in an orderly routine; maybe some hot gossip about widowed Mrs. Hatchell and how she had gotten another cat, or how the local cafe was serving a new type of drink, or perhaps how Beacon Hills was experiencing warmer than usual. It was a never ending cycle of routines. Nothing ever changed or was discovered, the buildings were the same, only refreshed with a new coat of paint, and the sidewalks swept twice a year - once in the spring, and once in the fall. New greenery flourished in the preserve, while unsteady or dying trees were left to Mother Nature’s command. The occasional autumn storm blew in from the north and warm winds came from the south. Nothing truly changed. 

Beacon Hills never changed - even with the death of his mother. There had been a small article in the local newspaper, and a small summary in the obituaries. But beyond the few people who read the paper while sipping their morning coffee, no one knew of the death of Claudia Stilinski. To Beacon Hills, she had been a shadow that had simply disappeared one morning, a slight absence wandering the town with a bright smile and a clear laugh; simply a cloud that had slipped out of sight in the wind. 

For Stiles, it was odd. At the age of six, he had been told stories by his mother after school, swinging his short legs on the stool of the island in their kitchen, watching with great doe eyes as his mother spun fantastical tales of wonder as she stepped about, hips swaying to the low buzz of the radio, a small hum under her breath when she paused in her stories every once in a while, as if lost in another world so far from the one Stiles was watching from. To Stiles, her voice had sounded like an angel, soft and pure, clear and bright, like a clean brook racing through dappling sunlight flickering through a spring breeze, carefree and calm. 

Many of her stories had held a special place in Stiles’ mind, the tales spending much of their time at the ocean beach, of the waves crashing upon the rocks, slick with sea moss and tide pools full of life, from sand dollars to small crabs and starfish. His mother had always spoken of the ocean as a world of possibility, like the sea a sanctuary, like a home that she could never reach in Beacon Hills, surrounded by trees that reached for the sky like how she reached for water. 

Often times, Claudia would cradle the young boy in her arms, rocking back and forth on his bed, humming under her breath, so quiet and so fragile, so scared to be heard. He had once joined her in her tune, but had been shushed immediately the moment his father had been heard down the hall, footsteps heavy with sleep as he approached the threshold, a smile on his tired face as he stepped into the room, sitting on the mattress, resting his hand on Stiles’ knee.

“Trouble sleeping, kiddo?” John asked, voice hoarse as he rubbed a hand over his eyes. 

Stiles hadn’t needed help to sleep for such a long while, but he still nodded, his mother’s panicked breaths surrounding him, the wondrous sound of her quiet voice still ringing in his ears like an eternal melody. His father had sighed in strained patience, giving Claudia a knowing yet warm smile, kissing his wife on the cheek before staggering back to bed. The pair sat quietly in the shadows, alone and forgotten, an island of isolation.

“Mama…” Stiles whispered, his small voice airy with a heavy layer of confusion, “Why we sing to Tata?”

Claudia heaved a shuddering breath, ears still pricked for her love’s footsteps, “Because, my sunshine,” her gentle hands, calloused and worn, yet the embodiment of youth as she cupped her son’s hand, watching his small fingers spread, so small for such a talk; “our voice is powerful, a song or even a tune can do bad things. So only sing with me, my darling, and everyone will be alright. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mama.”

Nothing changes in Beacon Hills. The mail is delivered by bike by the town’s small postal office of three employees, and the newspaper brought by paperboys. Christmas decorations were sold obscenely early while leaves were only starting to turn into a great collage of color. When Stiles’ mother was diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia, days were spent wandering the hospital, watching as people came in and out of doors, his mother never leaving. Sometimes, the same people would come in, coming back for more and more pills, while the same people came in for visits, like Stiles. But Stiles was different, because he rarely left. He was another figure on the cold sterile chairs in the waiting room, never leaving, even when his mother’s loving words turned hateful and unknown. He stayed. 

After his mother’s funeral, very little changed. 

Peppermint mochas were sold as a seasonal drink at the cafe on the corner across from the library, twinkle lights hung from the trees lining the sidewalks. His father worked harder, sometimes not returning home after several days, the smell of alcohol on his breath and tired shoulders as he walked down the hall. Stiles began to hum. 

When Scott was bitten on their search for an unknown girl’s body, pumpkins were still sold at the store for less than a dollar. Stiles had found a reason to research again, to dive into something meaningful, a peaceful routine of stress and Adderall. Halloween decorations soon sprouted and cozy movie nights became the seasonal date night trend. Werewolves mixed with Chemistry detentions and late night research sessions turned into late night scrapes and bruises in The Preserve. Stiles began a quiet melody in the shower. 

Soon after the Bestiary had fallen into the hands of a Stiles Stilinski, Stiles found a familiar word his mother had whispered of in her tales of crashing waves and salty depths, but Stiles kept quiet, a shadow of a human resting within his pack. Dangers rose while quarterfinals loomed, a new assortment of books were available at the library while the Kanima wreaked havoc. But, in the end, nothing changed, only swayed. 

After the torture administered by Gerard Argent, Stiles was still the human of the group. The forgotten shadow in a room of isolation, a warm melody in his mind while blood swelled in his mouth. As he healed, the dinner across town improved their recipe for curly fries, while low murmured words sprung from Stiles’ lips as he held a tune in an empty house. Nothing truly changed in Beacon Hills, only swaying in its resident’s lives, before returning to its center.

Stiles could deal with normal. He was the normal one in the pack, the human with the computer, the second-notch genius, the teen with too much time on his hands, the weak human with a baseball bat. No claws, no fangs, no song. It was his role to be the normal one. 

Stiles was the one everyone forgot and left behind, a shadow with a voice, the one to stay at base. He was often swayed, from his dealing with Gerard to the Nogitsune, his mind changing but still the human, still weak. But, Stiles was happy wrapping bandages around his scarred chest from the latest monster of the week, to be the rock, to be the humanity. 

Before the sway, he and Scott had lived in the shadows, the outcasts of world. Scott lived as a variable his life with Stiles by his side, both of them one of the unknown, the strange wild cards. Stiles enjoyed being the constant, the unmovable resonance of humanity, of normalcy, to guide Scott through the world they both now live in, a tether to their past. 

Nothing changes in Beacon Hills, as only a handful of the supernatural reside within it. They protect the town, and they protect each other, a silent song in the Siren’s head as he haunts the halls of Beacon Hills High School, through the halls of fear and warmth and in remembrance of those who had fallen. He sits on the edge of the pool where he had held Derek and on the lacrosse field, where Lydia’s blood had once stained. Stiles haunts the cleared land of the old Hale Manor, where so many ties and bonds were made. 

Stiles haunts his home, where the Nogitsune had consumed his thoughts, but nothing ever changes. But Stiles never did mind singing at the top his lungs while he was home alone.


End file.
